Hokey-Pokey

I just figured out that grief is sort of like doing the Hokey-Pokey dance.

You put your left foot in, you put your left foot out...

Sometimes I put my foot in the grief and sometimes I am taking it out. This week, I seem to have thrown my whole body into this dance and have shaken all about. You see, dear internet, this week has been a week of freakin' hard firsts. And the surprising part is, I never anticipated these firsts, didn't prepare for them, didn't see them coming at me like a steam engine that jumped the tracks.

Every spring since my kids could walk, they have been enrolled in soccer. That's right, everyone, I am a soccer mom. Happy to oblige too. Since Shalebug has been around that means not only do I drag my sorry butt to the fields to watch six year olds stand around and pull their jersey's over their heads, but I dragged my angel as well.

Where we would both sit there and freeze our asses off. Being the good mom that I am, I used to stick my hands in his armpits to keep my paws toasty. And him being the good boy he was, he let me.

He would giggle when the ball rolled our way. He would cry when I got excited and started to cheer on a player. (I'm an equal-opportunity mom, I'll cheer for any kid who manages to get the ball.) He would get mad when the local train came rolling down the track and toot it's horn.

I didn't anticipate the loneliness I would feel, sitting there on the field with no body to keep my lap warm. No armpits to stick my fingers into. When the train rushed passed and whistled, I braced for the screaming. Except there was none. No one noticed the train but me. No one giggled when the ball rolled past my chair. No one squirmed to get free and stand, holding on to my chair.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. Soccer is just not the same. So here I am, stuck again in the mire of grief and sadness. Doing the hokey-pokey, just waiting to turn myself around.